


The Wolf and The Stag

by TrappedInSonder



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Chance Meeting, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Fix-It of Sorts, Fix-it fic, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gay, Geralt dresses up, Geralt makes him not sad, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geraskier, Jaskier is sad, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Sort of? - Freeform, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, masquerades, post episode 6, very gay, very soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:35:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23502454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrappedInSonder/pseuds/TrappedInSonder
Summary: No, Geralt wasn’t entirely sure on who it was until he’d spotted his hand by his side, ringed thumb brushing circles into calloused fingertips. The mere gesture secured his suspicions, conscious catching up with his subconscious, who’d seemed to already have realised, judging by his shortness of breath.Stood there, clad in a gloriously golden and black coat, patterned similarly to Geralt’s, golden straps crossing over the detailed grey undershirt that peaked through, and the long black trousers was Jaskier, features concealed beneath a grand golden Stag mask.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 267





	The Wolf and The Stag

**Author's Note:**

> Hey hey lovelies! Sonder, here again, to say thank you for reading! I really enjoyed writing this fic and I hope you all enjoy this small bit of fluff too! 
> 
> This fic was inspired by this tweet: https://twitter.com/BERGARAOFRIVIA/status/1246634471677464577?s=20
> 
> As always, please leave a comment, I always love hearing what you all have to say! <3

Geralt hadn’t been particularly interested in this masquerade, costume party shit, or whatever they were calling it to disguise from the fact the whole thing was an excuse for a lawless, risk-free night of aliases and ulterior motives. It was practically a breeding ground for broken hearts and crimes without consequence. It was fair to say Geralt had no interest in them, though, by the time he’d returned from a contract, dropping the Bruxa’s head at his feet, a costume had already been set out for him, alongside the insistence that he must come along as if it were a life or death situation. His citrine gaze had studied the darker clothes on the bed, adorned with simple gold glamour that moved in swirls throughout the black silk of the outer layer. A huff escaped the Witcher’s lips, eyes glancing to the steam of the freshly drawn basin in the corner of the large room, a silent plea for Geralt to not show up decorated grotesquely with blood, guts and gore. Somehow, he willed himself into the basin, giving extra care in picking the contents, the memory of the bard’s lectures on various types of flowers and essences aiding him in his decisions. He quickly began to work his hair free of grime, using it as a distraction from the ghost of calloused fingertips upon his scalp. That had been a long time ago. 

“The last thing I want is someone needing me.”

“And yet, here we are...”

A grunt left the witcher as he dragged his mind from the memory, ducking his head below the surface of the water and running his hands through the tangled, desaturated tresses to free them of the floral concoction and the blood. He wasn’t completely covered but he should look presentable since it would shame the Lord if he didn’t. And, Geralt wasn’t unreasonable. He had paid well for his services, offered accommodation for both him and Roach, had thoroughly cleaned Roach and fed her well too. Even sharpened his swords within the night, and Geralt awoke to find them near perfect. Perhaps that was the incentive to take part in this whole song and dance, despite the measures he’d taken to avoid such an event in the past. Perhaps a small bit of Jaskier was left behind on him. Making him softer.   
Geralt gave a grunt and raised an eyebrow into the mirror, having climbed out of the basin now amidst his thoughts. He rose the towel to his hair and gently squeezed at the locks, easing the water remnants from them slowly. With care, like Jaskier had-  
No. Gods, why was that bard always creeping onto his mind?! He can go to this party, indulge in the privacy, perhaps find a companion for the night and take his wandering thoughts off of Jaskier for once.   
His toned body shifted as his torso twisted in the direction of the costume laid upon the bed. He drifted over slowly, dabbing at the back of his neck to collect the rest of the damp there. 

The whole get-up consisted of a black doublet and trouser set, finished with a large cloak with a single silver chain connecting the edges of the collars. It was grand, the gold colour decorating the black beneath with elegance, the pattern carefully crafted to perfection, down to every fibre. It was a nice fabric, too; Must’ve been expensive. More expensive than Geralt would’ve even considered spending on clothing. A new house, maybe. Perhaps some stables for Roach on the side. A few maids. He sighed, a gentle frown etching it’s way onto his face. There was no sign of a mask anywhere, though he was sure the chatter on the street had been about a masquerade ball. Actually, he was certain, as it was all they would talk about, which made getting any information he actually needed difficult. So, would he not require a mask? 

A knock on the door caught his attention, the maid quietly peeking around the wooden door with hesitance.  
“Sir, the good Lord has sent me to assist with your clothing, and asked me to bring you to him before you leave for the party…”  
Sensible. Geralt looked confused at the mere sight of the costume, let alone how to put it on. Give the witcher a large set of complex armour and he’ll make sense of it in seconds, but he was never taught how to understand the stands and strings that bind people into these grand asphyxiators.   
A soft rumble from deep within his chest, and a soft nod alongside prompted the young woman to hurry over and begin pulling out his underclothes, handing them to Geralt to do himself while she opened up the back of the doublet for him. After a good hour of struggling (Ten of which was Geralt complaining and neer refusing to wear the excruciatingly tight pants), He let her settle the grand cape upon his shoulders, fastening the chain at the front before she stepped back with a wide smile. 

“Like a real-life prince charming.”  
The girl, who’s name, he’d learned, was Clarissa through idle chatter, spoke, her eyes shining with wonder at the sight of him all dressed up. Geralt simply gave a hum before his eyes flicked to the mirror. He looked ridiculous, he thought.   
“Now, You must sit-”  
Clarissa began again, gently guiding Geralt to sit on the edge of the bed. She climbed on it behind him, getting onto her knees as her fingers threaded through and split apart the desaturated strands on the sides, making to braid them.   
“This won’t take long, I promise.”   
The pity in her voice caught Geralt’s attention, but he decided not to comment. He just focussed his eyes on his reflection in the mirror across the room, watching as she twisted and twirled her fingers in a rhythmic dance across his scalp, leaving behind a tight, complex braid. She did two from either side of his head, pulling them to meet at the back and settle upon the rest of the longer floods of white, gently tying a ribbon at the back to hold them in place. Then, a hand gently moved to brush some of the loose strands over his shoulders. 

“There, I think you’re about done. What do you think?”  
The maid asked hopefully, staring at her work with adoration. It was good work, truly, though it wasn’t really Geralt’s thing. Though she seemed happy with it, and he was sure the Lord and his mindless patrons would be overjoyed.   
“It’s...perfect, thank you.”  
He nodded his head and moved to stand, watching as her face lit up at the compliment. She must not get them a lot.   
“Oh, really? Well, I’ve been braiding hair my whole life. I have two younger sisters, and now mother’s too old to do it herself, I had to take-”  
The maid continued to ramble as she led Geralt in the direction of where the bard waited for him, offering a gentle hum every now and again to keep her under the illusion he was still listening, though he’d tuned out a long time ago. 

“Ah, Geralt! There you are! I’d begun to think you’d broken out of the window and run in terror!” The Lord spoke from before him, catching his attention as Clarissa quietened, and then quietly scurried away with a weak smile.   
“I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered it.”  
Geralt rumbled in return, earning a chuckle from the Lord. The shine of gold caught his eye from behind him, his head tilting a little, curious to see what it was exactly.   
“Eager, hmm?”  
The lord asked, before gently pulling his arm around the front to reveal what exactly it was that had caught Geralt’s eye. In his grasp was a grand golden mask, forged into the shape of a wolf. It was intricate and detailed, and everywhere Geralt looked he found a new detail. It was incredibly accurate, from what he could see, which made the fact he had to wear it a little less heavy.   
“Now, I know you are the White Wolf, but I thought perhaps gold would suit you better tonight.”  
It was gently pressed into his grasp, and Geralt took it with hesitance.  
“Uh-...Yeah. Thanks.”  
That prompted another laugh, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. And he didn’t entirely care. Now he was just eager to get this night over with.   
“My friend! Please, try to enjoy yourself on this night! You are a guest of honour, after all! Try to smile!”  
“Right.”  
And just like that, Geralt ended the conversation, gently settling the mask over his features to please the male before him, before he turned to face the doors of the grand hall in which the event was being held in. There had to be just under a hundred people in that hall alone, from what he could tell. This was going to be a chore. But, nevertheless, he willed his feet to move towards the doors, watching as the servants opened them to allow him access, citrine hues settling upon the many eager gazes his entrance had prompted.

Though he caught one that struck something within him, chest tightening. A gaze he recognised. A familiar scent, faint beneath the overwhelming cloud of perfumes and faux scents. No, it was there. But what caused him to freeze was how the sky blue orbs flickered with a hint of pain before they shot away, as if even a mere look at Geralt had caused the male pain. The height, though. It rang something within him.   
No, Geralt wasn’t entirely sure on who it was until he’d spotted his hand by his side, ringed thumb brushing circles into calloused fingertips. The mere gesture secured his suspicions, conscious catching up with his subconscious, who’d seemed to already have realised, judging by his shortness of breath. 

Stood there, clad in a gloriously golden and black coat, patterned similarly to Geralt’s, golden straps crossing over the detailed grey undershirt that peaked through, and the long black trousers was Jaskier, features concealed beneath a grand golden Stag mask. The horns were fairly large, and extended from the top of his mask gracefully, settling in the air with an air of importance. Or perhaps it was just Geralt that saw that. 

He’d looked pained, though. That thought settled back in his mind. And the hand gesture was a subconscious movement Jaskier made whenever he was nervous. Was it his presence that had made him feel this way?

Geralt felt a little uneasy, all of a sudden. He should leave, and his better mind demanded that he did, but his feet were always approaching the stag, golden gaze demanding his attention as he neared, lips parting to speak, the women he was surrounded by scattering quickly.   
“Rather grand party, wouldn’t you say?”

He tried to strike up a conversation, but Jaskier appeared to want none of it.  
“The lord is a grand person.”  
The words came out rather cold, azure gaze glanced to the side to be on anything but Geralt. The tense feeling from the mountain still hung between them. 

“I must admit, I wasn’t expecting to match with anyone tonight.”

“I’m sorry-”  
Jaskier suddenly cut in, turning away to grab his chalice from the table behind him.   
“-You must excuse me.”  
And like that, The stag disappeared into the crowd, heading for the large balcony overlooking the gardens. 

The wolf was quick to follow, determined not to let this go. 

He watched as the other walked to the edge of the balcony, cornered between the railings and Geralt. He turned with a heavy sigh, words trembling as they left plush tiers.

“Why is it that when I want to see you, I’m not wanted, but now I can’t stand to see you, I can’t get rid of you? Are these suffocating situations a witcher thing, pray tell?”

“Jaskier…”  
Geralt grumbled rather authoritatively, Jaskier shrinking back as if it were instinctual. Silence fell between them before a large hand reached out to gently grasp over the Stag mask, pulling upward until the other’s familiar features, crossed with a look of discomfort, were revealed to the night sky, moonlight decorating the harsh lines of his frown beautifully.  
His gaze fell, as if ashamed, then he turned to look out at the gardens, keeping his gaze hidden from the other, though Geralt had already seen how they began to glaze over and shine with tears. His head tilted softly, gaze softening now, with his words.   
“Jaskier…”  
He tried again, moving to stand beside the other, resting his arms against the platform of the wooden railings.   
“What I said on the mountain-”

“Don’t.”

The word had come as a shock to the witcher, who had believed an apology would be the first thing he would want to hear. Obviously, that was not the case. 

“Don’t ruin this night for me. This was supposed to be a good night. My distraction, Geralt. Why did you have to ruin it?”  
The bard’s words shook as he spoke them, betraying his attempts to hide his feelings. To be emotionless, though Geralt could never imagine the other as such. He was always brimming with emotions in every aspect of his person. 

“Jullian.”  
He tried this time, requesting a turn to speak. To share his point of view. There was an underlying sternness to the word, though it was mainly softened by the situation. He began to speak again after a moment, finding the other had indeed fallen silent.   
“I didn’t know you would be here. I didn’t intend to upset you. Here or on that mountain.”  
A scoff left the bard, though he quickly made to cut off any words of protest he had to say.   
“I didn’t. Things just-...spiraled out of control.”

“You mean your life went to shit and you took it out on me.”

“Yes, Jaskier. That is exactly what I did, and not a day goes by that I don’t think about it. That I don’t regret leaving you there.”

Silence fell between them again, Jaskier shaking his head and raising a hand to quickly wipe away a tear that had fallen 

“You hurt me, Geralt. Those things you said, they damaged me. I’m unsure if I could ever quite be the same again.”

“I’m sorry, Jaskier. I can only ask your forgiveness.”

More silence. Geralt wanted the other to take his time. To think about it. 

“Care to dance?”

“Geralt, I don’t think I can forgive you, just yet.”

“Then don’t.”  
Geralt moved and gently settled the mask over the other’s features once more, hand shifting to his neck, thumb pressing his jawline. Guiding it to face Geralt once more. 

“But Jaskier isn’t here, tonight. And Geralt of Rivia isn’t here either…”  
He gently grasped the other’s hands and led him back inside, sifting through the crowds backwards with ease until they were on the edge of the dancing circle. A slow and soft melody filled the room.   
“The Wolf is here, and the Stag is here. And they are complete strangers, with no past, meeting by chance in a crowd…-”  
He moved to rest a hand on the other’s waist, other interlocking their fingers and raising them into the air. Geralt felt a loss of tension as the other’s hand drifted to his shoulder and settled there.   
“-...Sharing a dance among other strangers with no past.”

“How very poetically put, Wolf.”

“Thank you, Stag. Now...Shall we dance?”  
The two began to move, drifting along around the circle that had formed together, unbothered by the curious and perhaps jealous gazes. Just the two, in an absent moment in time, lost within each other. 

Geralt could get used to this masquerade costume shit.


End file.
